


i'll be your friend

by duva, fictionalcandie



Series: the superfruit queen bey collection [1]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Backstory, M/M, Pining, Teen Angst, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7640128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duva/pseuds/duva, https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalcandie/pseuds/fictionalcandie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They’re multi-platinum recording artists now, who needed a giant push to get their relationship ducks in a row. But before, Mitch was just a boy in high school who couldn’t take his eyes off his best friend. There’s a reason Kirstie’s had a lot of practice giving Mitch that sad, painful smile over Scott.</p><p>This is that reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll be your friend

“Okay, kids, Mom and I are about to leave,” Dad’s voice carries down the stairs, to where they’re watching a movie in the den.

“Do any of you need dinner before we go?” Mom calls, on his heels.

Mitch glances at Kirstie and Scott, who both shake their heads. “No, we’re good,” he yells back. “Thanks.”

“We’re heading out, then,” says Mom, and Dad says, “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge if you change your minds.”

“I could totally go for the pizza later,” Kirstie tells them, over the sound of the front door closing upstairs. “Popcorn is _not_ filling.”

Well, if she feels _that_ way about it. Mitch pulls the popcorn bowl more squarely into his own lap. “This is why I’m fat, you know,” he mutters. “My mom keeps _feeding_ me.”

“No, it’s because you’re a popcorn hog,” Kirstie says, reaching for the bowl.

Mitch holds it out of her reach, shifting to block her with his shoulder. “Am not.”

“Give it back, then, I never said I didn’t _want_ it,” she snaps.

“You might as well—”

“Hey, can I ask you something, Mitch?” Scott asks, cutting in.

“You just _did_ ask him something,” Kirstie says. She finally manages to sneak in under Mitch’s arm and grab the bowl, shamelessly taking advantage of Mitch turning his attention to Scott.

Mitch mimes throwing his last handful of popcorn at her, and she sticks her tongue out at him. Mitch giggles, and looks back at Scott, who’s still looking at Mitch and frowning a little.

“Sure, of course,” Mitch says, trying to make his own voice serious, because Scott looks… pretty intense.

Scott licks his lips. “How did you know it was time to tell your parents?”

Mitch raises his eyebrows. “What,” he says, half-laughing. “That we don’t need the pizza?” 

“No,” Scott says, shaking his head. “That—you know.”

“Nope, I really don’t,” Mitch says.

“That you’re—you know. Gay.”

Mitch’s heartbeat kicks up, starts pounding. His eyes widen, just a bit.

“I don’t know,” he says, through a throat that suddenly feels a lot drier than it did a second ago. “I never really thought about not?”

“Right,” Scott says, mouth twisting. He doesn’t look like that was the answer he was hoping for.

“I just didn’t ever really think about it being a big deal,” Mitch says. He shrugs, feeling awkward for no good reason. “My parents love me, no matter what, and I knew it.” He eyes Scott, considering, and adds, “Kinda like how your parents do.”

“Yeah,” Scott agrees. Mitch _might_ be imagining it—he doesn’t want to look hard enough to check for sure—but he thinks there’s a bit of pink on Scott’s cheeks. “They do.”

“And we love Mitch, too. And Mitch and I love _you_ ,” Kirstie adds, because she’s not an idiot either. “Like you both love me.”

“Because we’re awesome,” Mitch agrees.

“Right,” Scott says, again. After a second, he clears his throat, fixes his eyes on something about a foot above the tv screen, and says, “So. Uh. Guys.”

“Yeah?” Kirstie prompts. She sounds like she's trying to sound encouraging.

“I don’t like girls,” Scott says. He winces, definitely does not look at Kirstie, and says, “I mean, I like girls, I just don’t— _like_ girls.”

The words _no shit_ want to come out of Mitch’s mouth. He bites his tongue.

“I’m gay,” Scott adds, as if he needed to.

For a second, the only sound in the room is the movie going on in the background.

“Okay,” Kirstie says, into the quiet. “Cool.”

Mitch nods, and echoes her, not trusting his mind to supply any other appropriate words of his own. It just—seems like maybe that would be a bad idea, and he’s not thinking about why.

Scott lets out a long sigh, which sounds a lot like relief, like there's any way they’d ever have not been cool with it. Like Mitch hasn’t been out for ages. “Yeah,” he says, and _smiles_. It's the brightest thing in the room, the absolute idiot. “Awesome. Thanks, guys.”

“No problem,” Mitch croaks, and Kirstie says, “Shut up, I’m missing Stitch’s ohana moment.”

—

As soon as Scott leaves for the night, Kirstie pounces. Mitch had sort of been expecting she would, ever since Scott had made his grand announcement and her eyes had cut right to Mitch instead of focusing on Scott like they should have. This is what he gets for having her over to stay the night; _interrogated_ , the minute they’re alone.

Then again, Mitch had only noticed her looking because he’d been not-looking at Scott for the crucial moment, too, but his was _on purpose_.

“You don’t seem that surprised,” Kirstie says.

“I’m not,” Mitch admits. “I mean, not really.”

Kirstie squints at him. “So, is your gaydar just better, or something? Is that a thing?”

“No,” Mitch says, “that is not a _thing_.”

“Then how—”

“I don’t know, I just… pay attention, I guess?”

“Oh,” Kirstie says. She pauses. “So. Are you two…”

It takes him a minute to figure out what she means, and then Mitch snorts. “No.”

“It’d be adorable,” Kirstie says.

It would. More than that, it would be _everything Mitch wants out of life_. Well, okay, he’d also like a Grammy or two, but he figures he can at least wait until after high school for that. Everything he wants from life during high school, there.

Or, it would be, if Mitch didn’t also know that it would be a really, really bad idea. You don’t date your best friend, especially not during high school. Not if you want to stay friends with them _after_ high school. And Mitch does, he really, definitely, very much does. He wants it more than he could ever want something as trivial as the right to kiss Scott.

He wants Scott in his life _forever_.

“He’s been out for literally five minutes,” Mitch says, instead of any of that, because there are some things Kirstie doesn’t need to have spelled out for her. “Give him some time to breathe, would you?”

Kirstie gives a soft huff, and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Well, okay, but. What about _you_?” she asks.

For a long moment, Mitch doesn’t say anything, trying to figure out what he _can_ say without lying to either her or himself.

“Yeah,” Kirstie says, giving him a knowing smirk, very sly, “that’s what I thought.”

Mitch throws an unpopped popcorn kernel from the bottom of the bowl at her face. “Shut up, there’s nothing to think.”

“Sure there isn’t,” she says, but after that she lets it go.

—

“Hey, lemme get that,” Scott says, reaching one absurdly long arm over Mitch’s shoulder to hand the barista five dollars, before Mitch can get his wallet open.

“I can buy my own coffee,” Mitch points out. His voice is just a tiny bit unsteady, but he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who can tell. He really, really hopes he’s the only one. “You didn’t need to—”

Scott waves him off with one hand. The other hand is already out, accepting his change from the barista.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, with a shrug and a grin. “You can get both of ours next time, if you want.”

There’s a warm little flutter behind Mitch’s breastbone. He tries to stomp on it, as he grins back, but it’s a nimble bastard and keeps getting away from him.

“Sure, that sounds good,” he says, like there aren’t acrobatics going on inside his chest. “We can make it our own little Starbucks tradition.”

—

“I have no good ideas,” Mitch says, in the middle of choir practice, when they’re supposed to be coming up with duets. It’s not exactly a lie—he’s got ideas, they’re just not _good_.

“We should try _Islands in the Stream_ ,” Scott suggests.

“Ew, no,” Kirstie says, almost as soon as the words are out of Scott’s mouth. “I hate that song.”

Scott just laughs. “Yeah, no, I didn’t mean _you_ ,” he says, and then he’s turning to Mitch, no mistaking who that grin is aimed at. He _winks_. As if that’s a normal thing to do in this situation.

Mitch isn’t sure he could reply if he wanted to. He doesn’t know if he wants to. He’s busy trying to figure out when all those butterflies got in his stomach and how, exactly, he’s gonna get them out.

—

Mitch can’t remember whose house they’re in. There’s a party, he can hear all the other people loud and excited, but he can’t remember why. He doesn’t think he cares.

Whoever lives here has a _puppy_. Scott can’t seem to leave it alone, can’t take his eyes off it for more than a few seconds.

The goof is cooing over the tiny wriggling pile of fluff, folding himself nearly in half to bend over and pet it, rub at its tiny velvety ears, shake its little paws. He keeps glancing up, looking at Mitch through his lashes and beaming.

Mitch can’t take _his_ eyes off _Scott_. Thank god he doesn’t seem to care, not with a puppy to occupy him. Say again: a _happy, friendly puppy_.

His stupid ducking face looks like ducking sunshine. He's such happy rainbows, Mitch doesn't even feel comfortable swearing in his own head in front of it. There's no outlet for his frustration, nothing for it but to stare. It’s not _fair_.

—

“Betcha can’t hit that an octave higher,” Scott challenges, while they're messing around one day, singing pop songs back and forth at each other better than the original artists do it on the radio. He’s smirking.

Mitch narrows his eyes. “Screw you, I can hit anything I want to.”

“Yeah, I just bet you can,” Scott says. _His_ voice isn’t higher at all; in fact it’s _dropped_ some, gone all low and taunting and, and. Okay, crap, Mitch needs to think about something else. Right now.

“Just you watch me.”

Mitch hits it an octave higher. Scott doesn’t stop smirking.

—

“Okay, I feel you should know,” Kirstie says during lunch at school.

Mitch jerks his head up from his phone and a text conversation with Scott, who’s in class and shouldn't have his phone out but apparently felt the need to ask about Mitch’s morning anyway, finds her eyeing him with a huge crooked grin. “Uh oh,” Mitch blurts, the smile that'd been stretching his mouth falling off. He _knows_ that look on her face.

“I’m starting to ship it,” she finishes.

“What,” he says.

“You and Scott,” Kirstie says, just like he was afraid she would. “In luuuuuve.”

Mitch groans, and throws a hand up between their faces, breaking her gaze. “No.”

“No?”

“I’m not listening to this,” Mitch explains, standing up. “In fact, I am _leaving_.”

Kirstie giggles, completely undaunted. “I see you not denying anything,” she calls after him as he walks away, ignoring any heads that might be turning. “I’m still gonna ship it!”

—

Scott is washing his parents’ car while they’re hanging out at his house, and Mitch was present for the whole conversation leading up to it but he’s still not sure how they wound up here. Scott’s clothes are half soaked through because he keeps waving the hose around every time he wants to make a point. He’s talking about—robot gerbils? Rabbits? Something small and furry and possibly animatronic—and it’s equal parts adorable and hot. Every minute or two he’ll pause, and make eye contact, all lingering for no good reason, and smile.

Mitch is being subjected to this under protest, except for how he could leave any time he wanted. It’s just—really hard to pull himself away, when Scott looks like that and keeps _looking_ at him like _that_.

The thing is, Scott hasn't been acting any different from how he used to treat Mitch, before coming out. It's only that now, Mitch doesn't have any excuse to be telling himself that _Scott_ can't mean it the way Mitch wants him to mean it. Scott could. If Scott were anybody else, Mitch would be _certain_ that Scott _does_ mean it.

It's Scott, though, so Mitch can only convince himself that he's got a _shot_ , not a sure thing.

Hell, it's really kind of awesome to know he even has _that_ much of a chance. 

Scott shakes his damp hair back off his face, rakes his hand through it and leaves it slicked back and half mussed, and grins. Straight at Mitch.

“Admit it,” Scott says, a fat drop of water dripping down his temple from his hair, along the firm line of his jaw, with his hair looking for good reason as if someone’s been dragging their hand through it—practically an invitation. “The ears alone would be worth it, right?”

“Sure,” Mitch says, though he has no idea with what he’s just agreed.

“I _knew_ it,” Scott says, immensely satisfied.

Mitch’s expression gets soft, and probably more than a little gooey—he can _feel_ it going all open and soppy and ridiculous. For once, he doesn’t try to stop it. Maybe it’s okay, now.

Maybe he can actually be allowed to be a little bit in love with Scott.

What's the worst that could happen?

—

There's a difference between letting himself crush hard on his best friend, and letting other people see him crushing hard. Mitch was trying to stick that line, but. He’s being too obvious, he knows he is. Somebody’s going to notice, and Mitch’ll be lucky if it’s only—

The next time they all go to the movies, and Scott gets up to go fetch candy and drinks, Mitch looks away from watching him walk away, stupid fond smile Mitch can’t help on his face, and he catches Kirstie narrowing her eyes at him.

Yeah. Her.

Uh-oh.

“What?” he asks, though he doesn't really need to. Maybe he’ll get lucky, and be wrong.

Turns out, he isn’t. Of course he isn’t.

Kirstie pokes his leg. “Are you _sure_ you don’t like him?” she demands, in a tone like she _knows_ , no matter what she’s asking.

Mitch hesitates, doesn’t say anything. Then, “No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I’m not sure. Actually, I… I’m pretty sure I do,” Mitch says, and the words come out easy, so very easy, like it’s not a huge confession, like Mitch doesn’t already half-wish he could take it back.

It’s out there now, though, admitted to and spoken aloud and everything. Impossible to pretend even to himself that it’s not the truth. There’s no going back from this.

Kirstie stares at him for a second, mouth open. Then she squeals. Actually squeals.

“That was—a stronger reaction than I was expecting,” Mitch says.

“I told you, it’ll be _adorable_ ,” Kirstie coos, clapping her hands together. She squeals again.

“Can you just… try to find out if he’s into anyone?” Mitch asks, to make that sound stop, because he can’t get excited, not yet, not when he doesn’t know if he _should_ be or not. He can’t look at her as he asks, anyway.

“Mitch,” she says, still with the tail end of a squeal in her tone, “I’d _love_ to.”

#

This is gonna be so good, Kirstie can _feel_ it. Mitch admitted he has feelings, _finally_ , and now all she has to do is get Scott to admit the same, and they can start dating and being adorable, and stop being awkward. And, to be fair, adorable—but dating and adorable is preferable to awkward and adorable.

Kirstie has a mission.

The next time she's over at Scott’s, she doesn't waste any time. Well, she wastes three minutes talking about this guy Ricky in the marching band who keeps grinning at her whenever they pass in the halls lately, but that's not her fault. His hair is so _curly_ , she has to talk about it at least a little.

After that, though, she doesn't waste any time, going straight for the kill and asking about _Scott’s_ love life.

Scott looks a little awkward. He shifts his skinny shoulders in something not quite a shrug. “I dunno,” he says. “What is there to say?”

“I haven't heard you talk about anybody!” Kirstie protests. “I mean, you didn’t before you—y’know, told us—and I get that, but you haven’t done it since then, either.”

“Well, no, I guess I haven’t,” Scott mumbles.

“There’s gotta be _somebody_ ,” she says, leading him.

“Well,” he repeats. Then he stops.

Oh, _yes_.

“There _is_ ,” she exclaims, with relish.

“Yeah, kinda, I guess,” Scott says. He might as well have hired a skywriter to declare it to the world, what with the soppy fond thing his face is doing. Especially the bashful little smirk curling his mouth.

“Okay, now you’ve _gotta_ tell me,” Kirstie says.

“Well,” he says, obviously wavering.

She claps her hands. “Come on, spill!”

He bites his lip and looks at her. “Look. You can’t tell anyone, okay?” he says.

“Cross my heart,” she swears, nodding.

“Not _any_ one,” Scott repeats. “Not even Mitch.”

“Not even Mitch,” Kirstie says, with a rush of excitement. God, this is gonna be _so_ good, it’s gonna be grea—

“I’m sort of—seeing this guy,” Scott says.

Kirstie freezes. She swears her blood goes icy. Shit, that had better not be showing on her face.

‘This guy’ means it somebody else. ‘Seeing’ also means he doesn’t mean Mitch, _can’t_ , because Mitch would have told her. Every part of that sentence means it’s _not what she wanted_.

“Oh, yeah?” she says, focusing on keeping her smile up and her tone bright. It’s not Scott’s fault she was hoping he’d say something—different.

“Yeah, he’s on the volleyball team with me,” Scott says, ducking his head and blushing all bashful. “Cameron. I’m pretty sure you know him, right?”

What?

Oh, fuck, no.

Yeah, Kirstie knows Cameron, all right. If he’s who she thinks he is, he’s blond and tan and almost as tall as Scott, good-looking and friendly and popular, one of those jocks everybody at school knows. The ones whose jokes everybody laughs at, who everybody wants to be friends with.

He’s also _taken_.

“You don’t mean Cameron _Hughes_ , the senior, do you?” Kirstie demands.

“Uh.” Scott scratches the back of his neck, avoiding her eyes. His face is creeping from pink to red. “Yeah?”

“Scott,” she says, and screw staying positive. She lets her voice go flat. “Cameron Hughes has a girlfriend. You know, the _cheer captain_?”

Scott’s whole body winces. “Yeah, I know.”

“Then what do you mean, you’re _seeing him_?”

“Look, he can’t tell his parents, okay? They aren’t—like mine and Mitch’s,” Scott tries. “He’s got to keep Ashleigh so they...don’t...find…out.”

His voice gets smaller and smaller as she stares him down, eventually trailing off into nothing. He clears his throat, face flaming, but she doesn’t stop glaring.

“He’s got you in the closet, because he’s a chicken shit,” Kirstie summarizes for him. “When you only _just_ came out of it.”

“It’s not like that,” Scott insists. “It’s not as easy for him.”

“Yeah, sure. He tell you that before or after he had you blow him in the showers?” she snaps, and means it to cut.

Scott’s gaze shoots back to hers like a rubber band snapping small again. “I _like_ him, Kirstin. Okay? You don’t have to, but I _do_ , and you’re my _friend_ , so you don’t get to—be all _mean_.”

Kirstie really, really wants to tell him he’s a giant fucking moron, that he could have _Mitch_ , who wouldn’t try to keep him in _anything_ he didn’t want to be. She wants to insist that she’s never, ever going to be nice about somebody _using_ her best friend—because that’s exactly what this sounds like, no matter what Scott says. Anybody who deserves Scott would be willing to admit they want him without hiding behind some beard in a miniskirt and pompoms—whether he can see that or not.

Except she _is_ Scott’s friend, and he made it very clear what he wants to hear and what he doesn’t, and she _did_ promise. Kirstie sighs.

“Fine, I’ll be. Well, I won’t be mean, anyway,” she says, a little tight. She narrows her eyes. “But when he drops you like dead fish, I’m gonna _gut_ him.”

“If he dumps me, I’ll let you,” Scott agrees, but he’s grinning and dismissive, his voice light, so obviously he doesn’t believe her. Probably he thinks that’s never going to happen, that Cameron Hughes would never do that to him—the giant naive puppy.

“Good,” Kirstie says, and doesn’t rub his face in it, because she’s a good friend, damn it. And to think, five minutes ago she was _happy_ , back when she thought he was about to say that he and Mitch were—

Oh, shit, _Mitch_.

Kirstie can’t tell him, she promised not to, but she’s—she’s his friend, too, and he has to know about this. Or at least that he can’t go after Scott, not right now. He _has_ to know.

Which means _she_ has to tell him _something_.

The universe _sucks_.

#

Kirstie calls him on Saturday morning, insists he come out and meet her somewhere. She doesn't even promise coffee. Mitch is suspicious. It’s Kirstie, though; he goes.

“I need to talk to you,” is the first thing Kirstie says when he gets to the park where she said to meet. It’s too fast, words all heavy.

That's all it takes, though, and right away Mitch knows this is going to be _bad_.

“Sure,” he says, though, because what else is he going to do. It’s Kirstie, and she doesn’t look like that for just anything. Better to get it over with. “What’s up?”

“It’s. Well.” She stops, can’t seem to get the words out. “The thing is.”

“Come on, just say whatever it is, already,” Mitch urges.

“Shit,” Kirstie says, blowing out a huge breath. She rubs a hand over her mouth a minute, brow scrunched up like she’s thinking super hard about something, then lets the hand fall. She pins Mitch with a look, so serious it’s already making Mitch’s stomach drop. “Okay, so, I can’t tell you why, and I can’t tell you why I can’t tell you why, but I need to tell you something.”

“Oh-kay,” Mitch says, in a voice that comes out slower than he meant it to. His chest is all tight with something he really doesn’t want to face. It’s probably dread.

Kirstie’s _never_ this serious. She looks kinda like she’s gonna cry.

“You need to—stop,” she says.

“Stop wh—” Mitch starts to ask, but the look in her eyes and the downturned corners of her mouth catch the words in his throat, and he knows. He doesn’t want to, he wants to be wrong so badly it hurts, but he _knows_. “No.”

“Yeah,” Kirstie replies, miserable. “That.”

“No. No, no, no,” Mitch says, shaking his head.

Kirstie bites her lip, and nods. “You gotta stop crushing on Scott,” she says.

“ _No_ , you don’t get to, to tell me I should go for it one day, then just—come in here and expect me to _not_ ,” Mitch says. “Without even _telling_ me _why_.”

“God, Mitch, I’m—I’m sorry, you gotta believe I wouldn’t—If I didn’t _know_ —”

Kirstie’s voice breaks, and she reaches to take his hands. Mitch jerks them away at the last second, abruptly sure he wouldn’t be able to stand it. The thought of being touched right now is making him queasy. Or maybe that’s just knowing what she’s asking—no, _telling_ him to do. To give up on Scott.

Like it’s just supposed to be that easy.

“Is that supposed to _help_ ,” Mitch snaps.

“No, I guess not,” Kirstie admits.

“Then _why_?” he demands.

“I already told you, I can’t tell you.”

Mitch huffs. He’s angry, and he’s hurt, and he’s angry that he’s hurt, so he asks, without any kindness at all, “So why tell me at _all_?”

She shrugs, helpless, and gives Mitch such a pathetic, miserable look that he can’t even be mad at her. She doesn’t like this any more than he does.

“I’m sorry,” she says, in a defeated tone, like she knows it’s useless.

Mitch huffs again. Knowing she’s unhappy—doesn’t really do him any good.

“I think I’m gonna go,” he says.

“Okay.”

Her voice is small, but it seems to carry after him the whole way back across the park.

—

It’s at another stupid party—no puppy this time, a small mercy—that Mitch works it out. The reason Kirstie wanted him to back off, what she must have known, the thing she couldn’t tell him.

This party, Mitch knows exactly why they’re attending, and it, like so many things, is Scott’s fault. It’s a volleyball party, at some volleyball player’s house, hosted by the volleyball team because they won their last game and somebody’s parents happened to be out of town the whole same weekend. Of course Scott was going, which meant of course Mitch and Kirstie came too. Kirstie went off fifteen minutes ago with some band guy she’s been eyeing up all week, and Mitch left Scott sitting on a sofa in the living room to go fetch some more crappy beer from the kitchen.

It’s what he sees when he gets back to the living room that’s the problem.

Most of the volleyball team are grouped around Scott’s couch. Cameron Hughes has taken Mitch’s spot next to Scott, and seems to be telling a story. He puts one hand on Scott’s shoulder, the other gesturing in front of them, probably trying to illustrate whatever it is he’s talking about. Scott meets Hughes’s eyes, and blushes. He looks down, then right back up again through his lashes, still blushing and grinning. He leans into the hand, only a little, barely noticeable, but there all the same if you're Mitch and you're paying attention.

Oh, god.

Just like that, Mitch _knows_. Something inside his chest seems to stop, between one breath and the next, leaving him feeling hollowed out and too heavy. Hughes has already taken his hand off Scott’s shoulder, moving on to something else, but Mitch could swear he still feels the weight of that touch in his own bones.

Scott doesn’t act like that over a hand on his shoulder, doesn’t go flustered over such a simple thing; he’s not that shy. What Scott does do, though, is light up like a tomato if he thinks someone’s caught him doing something he didn’t want them to know he was doing. It’s the whole reason Mitch knew he was gay in the first fucking place—no straight guy would spend that much time staring at Heath Ledger’s ass in the scene where he’s using the entire band to serenade Julia Stiles, and going scarlet by inches, Mitch didn’t care how many times they’d seen that movie or how much of an embarrassment squick they had.

For Scott to be doing it now means Scott’s hiding something. For him to be doing it over that means the something is, well. Is Cameron Hughes. Who is everything Mitch isn’t: popular and athletic, good-looking and unselfconscious; so deep in the closet he’s probably having drinks with Aslan, and _dating somebody else_ , for fuck’s sake.

That—that makes so much _sense_. No wonder Kirstie told him to back off.

This sucks. For so many reasons, okay, but—

—Scott deserves better than to be someone’s dirty little secret.

Scott deserves _the world_.

And, yeah, okay, it’s not like _Mitch_ could give it to him, either, Scott deserves way better than him too, but at least. At least Mitch’d be better than Hughes. Mitch would never even _try_ to keep Scott in the shadows, some damn jock’s sideline chick. Scott deserves a place to shine, and Mitch maybe couldn’t give him that but he would sure as hell _try_. He’d give Scott anything, everything he could.

But Mitch can’t give it to him if Scott won’t let him.

Mitch turns away. This is a high school party, but at least two members of the volleyball team have older brothers in college; there’s _gotta_ be some wine somewhere in the place. It can’t all be cheap gross beer. He’s going to find it, and he’s going to drink it _all_.

—

“C’mon, I need caffiene,” Scott says, after school, huge warm hand on Mitch’s shoulder over the strap of his backpack, trying to steer him. “Let’s get some Starbucks.”

“I have homework,” Mitch says, thinking with longing of last week, when he didn’t know for sure that a touch like that meant nothing. He leans into it anyway.

“Please?” Scott begs.

Mitch wavers, torn between self-preservation and the pretty damn compelling argument of Scott and Scott’s face and Scott’s company. “I dunno.”

“I will buy you a venti anything you want,” Scott says, dead serious, and how is Mitch supposed to turn down Scott _and_ free caffeine?

He gives up with a sigh. “Oh, all right,” he says.

Scott still smiles at Mitch like he’s better than a hundred puppies. Mitch kinda wants to punch him in his stupid cute face a couple times. He wants to punch _himself_ in the face about a thousand. He lets Scott pull him away.

—

They're at a show, just the three of them, watching somebody else get a roaring chorus of cheers just for walking out on stage. For no reason Mitch can see, Scott looks away from the headliner they paid good money to watch, and locks eyes with Mitch. Just—because.

Scott smiles at him.

Mitch’s stomach gives a little lurch, still, and he’s smiling back before he can think about whether he really wants to or not, but it’s okay. Mitch is ignoring all of that. And anyway, Scott looks away after only a second, so Mitch can look away, too.

Kirstie’s giving Mitch That Look, again. The one that says she _knows_ , and she’s sorry, and she still ships it, and, really. What does she think that’s going to help? Like it makes anything better that she knows how much of an idiot he feels. He wishes she’d just forget it, already, and _stop_.

Mitch sighs, and looks away.

Someday, he’s sure he’ll be able to look back on this whole mess without wanting to beat his own head against a brick wall. Someday, maybe he’ll even be able to laugh about it. He just has to get there.

Someday.

END

[ _Someday_ , many years and three or four Grammys later, they perform to a sold-out crowd on that same stage, and after, Scott beams at Mitch, and leans over, and kisses him. Right there in front of everybody. This is everything Mitch has ever wanted in the world, period. He laughs.]


End file.
